


This is Not a Love Story

by mightierthanthecanon



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: ...for the feelings. not for the sex., Alternate Universe, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Inspired by a Movie, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Plot Twists, Porn With Plot, Slow Burn, Story within a Story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-04-26 01:19:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4984297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightierthanthecanon/pseuds/mightierthanthecanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So," Dr. Lecter said, "You are not a young woman."<br/>"Nor are you a poor man," Will replied. His face twisted into a smile at the inauspicious irony of it. "We are both liars."<br/>From the darkness, Lecter corrected him. "Not anymore."<br/>--<br/>Hannibal Lecter advertises for a wife. Using the name Willow, Will Graham answers it. This is the first lie.<br/>(Original Sin AU!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the sun will be up any minute

**Author's Note:**

> So...Original Sin is my favorite "so bad it's good" guilty pleasure movie ever made. It's all about lies and betrayal and sex and death and violence and falling in love. 
> 
> Obviously I had to write a Hannigram AU.

Will wakes up in a prison.

It isn’t new for him, being in jail. He’s been imprisoned for years now—in this world, in this life, in his mind.

_With Hannibal Lecter_ , his mind fills the silence, and the words sound like his, slithering and twisting and irresistible.

Will rubs at his eyes. It’s almost too dark to see, but the bars glint weakly, reflecting the last traces of moonlight around the damp cell.

“Your execution is to be held at dawn tomorrow, Mr. Graham,” the guard says. 

There’s a guard. 

Will turns to him, and they regard each other.

He has a hard face; Will ignores that. Inside, his heart is soft, and gentle, and the roughness he wears is his mask. He is not a cruel man. A cruel man would not have told Will about his execution. A cruel man would have let him think this a prison sentence, and surprised him with the axe, or the gibbet, or a noose.

 Then again, telling a man he will die when he can do almost nothing to change his fate? Letting him stew in the knowledge of his own impending demise for hours? That is precisely what a cruel man would do.

That is what Hannibal would do.

The guard looks at him, waiting for something—for Will to yell. To scream. Protest his innocence, perhaps. Will just stares at him.

“Tuesday’s as good a day as any,” Will remarks. His voice is weak, scratchy from disuse. He coughs.

Still, the guard watches him, visibly confused. “To die,” Will clarifies.

Shaking his head, the guard slams the door shut. The clang is so hard and so loud that Will can feel his brain shudder inside his skull.

When Will opens his eyes, he’s on the ground, the cobblestones cool and damp against his cheek. He closes his eyes again.

“Mr. Graham,” the guard calls, in a voice that makes Will think he has been calling him for a while. The guard squats beside the bars of the cell, so close Will could touch him if he wanted. “You haven’t spoken to anyone since you’ve been here. Why are you speaking to me?” He’s worried. He’s worried, and he doesn’t want to be.

“What’s your name?” Will asks instead. 

The guard frowns, but Will can see the respect in his eyes.

“Jack,” he says, finally. “Jack Crawford.”

Will’s mouth twitches. “Doesn’t sound Spanish.”

Jack does not smile. “Neither does yours,” he replies, pointedly. “Answer the question, Will.”

He walks towards the bars, so that the moonlight spills over him, illuminating the red at his temples, around his throat, beneath his fingernails. 

“I’ve had blood on my hands for days,” he says, inspecting his fingers.

_More than that._

“If I’m going to meet my maker, I’d rather do it clean.”

Something in his voice makes Jack turn, and Will sees something in the guard’s eyes that he hasn’t seen yet. _Hope_. 

The room shifts, and another piece of the puzzle named Jack Crawford falls into place. Will resists the urge to pity him. 

Hope has never served him. It’s never served anyone.

“You’re a priest,” he says suddenly, and the puzzle whose name is Jack Crawford is no longer a puzzle. He is a priest. He wants to punish Will, or forgive him, but he needs Will to talk, to trust him, to _tell_ him in order to know which desire is the right one. 

Jack nods slowly. “Do you believe in God, Will?” he asks.

Yes, he does. Will believes in a God. Jack believes in a God.

Will is not sure their Gods are the same. He doesn’t say this to Jack.

“Yes,” Will sidesteps.

Jack shakes his head. “The blood’s not going anywhere,” he says. He’s not speaking to Will, now. “It never does.”

Will laughs quietly. “Give me some soap and water.”

Jack is unimpressed.

“Tell me why you did it,” he says. “Maybe I can spare you.”

If he wanted, he could fall to his knees, beg for Jack’s help. He doesn’t.

“Did you do it?” Jack asks, and Will almost smiles.

He runs his fingers through his hair so the priest doesn’t see.

“How about I tell you a story, Jack,” he says.

Jack narrows his eyes dubiously, but doesn’t turn away. 

It’s enough.

“Once upon a time…


	2. I stand before you as I am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will meets Hannibal.

It was too late to go back now. Even so, Will considered it.

The sun in Wolf Trap had never shone as brightly as this one, and the birds there never sang as sweetly. As loudly. Will already had a headache, the unavoidable _life_ of the city already throbbing behind his eyes like the beginnings of a migraine.

Only the crumpled paper in his pocket gave him comfort, and he rubbed it between his fingers as the ship pulled into shore.

_You can’t run away from love_.

It was only a few months earlier that he had seen ad in the paper: simple man seeking simple spouse. Though the words had been plain, the elegance of the advertisement—not to mention the tiny addendum mentioning a home in Cuba—belied their simplicity. The ad itself was handwritten, and Will had felt almost instantly that he _knew_ the writer. By the time he saw the address at the bottom, answering it was almost a foregone conclusion. 

Still, he didn’t know why.

Now, he was about to find out. Will had bought three tickets and crossed two seas to get here—an island he had never visited, populated by a people whose language he did not speak.

Trios of chattering girls and suave men with cigars walked past, their heels clacking on the boardwalk as Will waited almost patiently to get off the ship. It was the loudest group of people Will had ever encountered, but somehow, it was quiet. The emotions of the crowd were expected enough to be cliché—joy and sorrow in equal measure passed across their faces like colors from a stained-glass window—but the words escaped Will almost entirely. He lost himself in the rise and fall of their voices, the steady rocking of the ship. Eventually, he made his way to the front of the line and found himself truly on Spanish ground.

His clothes were…not quite as fine as the men and women waiting for their loved ones, but he reminded himself that that didn’t matter. Dr. Lecter chose him because he was looking for a spouse, and Will happened to be available. That was all that mattered. Not his face, not his clothes…not his gender, Will hoped. He could pass as a lot of things, but pretending to be a woman was not something that he wished to do.

Will looked at the picture again, scanning the crowd as much for the man’s chiseled cheekbones and piercing eyes as for the stilted, nervous gait of a man looking for his betrothed in the crowd.

A shadow fell across his brow.

“Graham?” the man asked, in a voice neither stilted nor nervous.

Will nodded. He looked up, noting the man’s clothes as he did—shined, expensive looking shoes, and a pinstriped three-piece suit, darker than most of the clothes on the men at the docks. He even had a pocket square. 

Hannibal Lecter. This had to be him. Even if the clothes didn’t match (which they didn’t—Dr. Lecter had described himself as a middle class man, and even with zero fashion sense, Will could see that his clothes were finer than almost anything in the square), there was something…familiar about his presence. Familiar, yet dangerous. 

Will was reminded of the wolves in Wolf Trap that ran with dogs through the woods—the same, yet different, in a way you didn’t notice until you felt yourself bleed.

“Dr. Lecter,” he answered, standing. He wore a worn pair of trousers and a threadbare plaid shirt which, while old, were comfortable, and reminded of home. They also had the added benefit of making it clear beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was a man. If Hannibal was going to send him away he could do it right now, before the boat left port.

Dr. Lecter took his time looking—most likely at Will’s boring shoes, or his decades-old plaid shirt. 

Will resisted the urge to turn away, to curl in on himself. When Will looked up to see his face, however, Hannibal Lecter was looking at his face. Will flinched, clearing his throat. 

“Well?”

He could feel them now, thin tendrils of panic rising up from the soles of his feet and the tips of his fingers as Dr. Lecter scanned the boat, then the docks, and then looked back at him. He rolled his shoulders, waiting. He’d throw him back any moment now.

The good doctor rewarded him with a face twitch that, on someone else, would have been a smile.

“Why the deception?” Lecter asked, adding, “Will,” almost as an afterthought. 

Will’s eye’s widened. That he could guess his name so quickly was unnerving. What else was he giving away without realizing it?

“Not so different, then, it seems. You could have been honest, Will. You would have found me no less interested.”

Meaning he could have been interested.

Meaning that he was, in fact, still interested.

It startled Will enough that he found himself looking into Dr. Lecter’s eyes. The words were innocuous enough, but something in his eyes flickered. Will realized it was a compliment, and flushed slightly, floundering for the words he’d practiced on the ship.

“Willow, she—she was my sister,” he managed.

Dr. Lecter nodded once, sharply, in understanding, but didn’t speak.

Will shrank away from his gaze, slipping his hand into his pocket to run his fingers over the picture. The soft, worn photo of Hannibal Lecter was safer, somehow, than the man himself. Will felt a security with it that he absolutely did not feel in the man’s presence. Dr. Lecter claimed not to be a psychologist, but Will had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being analyzed. 

An unspoken _why_ hung in the air between them. Would he stand and wait forever, unaffected by the heat? Or would he give up on Will as a wasted exercise, and find himself a more obedient spouse? Neither of those options appealed.

“She was engaged shortly after the two of you started talking,” Will offered. “My mother did not want to take the chance that her own flesh and blood would have to remain at home.”

His voice was nasty, but Dr. Lecter took it in stride, cocking his head to the side as if to see Will from a different angle.

“So she forced you to continue the relationship?”

Will fidgeted, running his hands through his hair, which was probably ruined, if the sea air hadn’t already done that. His mother hadn’t forced him. In fact, it had been—

Dr. Lecter did not need to hear these facts. From the twist of amusement at his lips, Will assumed he had deduced most of them.

“No,” he said simply, and Dr. Lecter smiled so slowly it was almost predatory.

Dr. Lecter was taller than him, he realized suddenly. Will shivered.

“I thought you could barely make ends meet,” he said, in an effort to turn the conversation from himself. 

It was hot outside, he noted, but Hannibal didn’t seem uncomfortable in the full suit. He wasn’t even sweating. Surprising, since it seemed expensive. Hannibal clearly had no trouble in the money department.For the first time all morning, Will was almost grateful. 

Hannibal was unfairly attractive, but, though he could have swept Will off his feet with money and charm and pure, primal sex appeal, he had chosen not to. Nor, to Will’s surprise, had he seemed offended by Will’s admittedly underhanded deception. He’d been nothing but cool and levelheaded. At least now he was a capitalist. A _lying_ capitalist. That was something Will could hate.

“I have more money than I need,” Dr. Lecter admitted openly. “I lied.”

_As did you_ , he could have said, but didn’t.

The man he was to marry stepped into the light. Like this, Will could no longer make out the good doctor's face. All he could see was darkness and shadow, silhouetted against the sun. Perhaps he was smiling. Perhaps he was frowning. Perhaps he was not there at all.

"So," Dr. Lecter said, "You are not a young woman."

"Nor are you a poor man," Will replied. His face twisted into a smile at the inauspicious irony of it. "We are both liars."

From the darkness, Lecter corrected him. "Not anymore. You have told me your secret, and I have told you mine.”

He’d been lying for weeks, himself. It still stung, however, and Will couldn’t help himself.

“Have you, Dr. Lecter?”

A twinkle in his eye, then Lecter inclined his head in a slight but definite nod. 

“One of them,” he allowed with a smile, and Will found himself, despite all his efforts, smiling back.

He was practically flirting. With his fiancé. With his _male_ fiancé.

Will looked around anxiously, but was surprised to find that no one was paying them any mind. The enormity of their words to each other had to have made an impact on the sun, or the sky, or the mass of people around them, but it didn’t, and Will felt closer to Hannibal for it—lost in the crowd together.

“ We are bonded by our truth, now,” Hannibal said, and it felt like a marriage vow even though they weren’t in the church yet.

"An honest marriage, Mr. Lecter?” Will asked, incredulous.

Hannibal nodded, holding out his hand. "An honest marriage, Will.” 

Will took his hand. Hannibal didn’t hold it long, just enough to feel the heat of his skin, test the pulse beating at his wrist. That, more than anything else, felt intimate—not an invasion of privacy, but a promise. 

_I can feel your heart_ , Hannibal was saying. _And it beats for me_. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're liking it so far! As always, I'm on tumblr: thebrigsbrigade.tumblr.com


	3. Will you dance with me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get married.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New year new chapters!

_We will be married promptly_ , Hannibal’s final letter had said. Will had imagined marrying the man within the space of a month. A week perhaps. There were things he had planned to learn in that time—what Hannibal liked, what he hated, what rotting skeletons he had hidden in the closet. Will had been prepared, although just barely, for that. What he had not expected was to arrive on shore and be married the very same day. 

Hannibal, however, seemed to have planned the meeting weeks in advance. Will struggled to imagine a scenario Hannibal wouldn’t be prepared for. 

He moved through town with the smooth single-mindedness of a hungry shark, and crowds of people who would have barely noticed Will parted for the doctor like the Red Sea. 

Will would have been jealous if the sudden space wasn’t such a welcome change, after the raucous pressing-in he’d felt stepping off the boat. 

The city seemed different with Hannibal by his side, quieter. Easier. Two men in matching clothes followed behind them, carrying Will’s small trunk as if it weighed nothing, or less than nothing. Hannibal had requisitioned two people too many for Will’s embarrassing lack of luggage. 

Evidently Hannibal had been expecting someone with more.

_More what?_

Everything, probably.

“How do you find Cuba?” Hannibal asked, guiding Will down a wide cobblestone street with a hand not quite at his back.

_Loud_ , Will thought, though not in terms of decibels. _Overwhelming. Alive._

But Hannibal was watching him, and Will didn’t want to see his face when he answered, didn’t want to hear his disappointment when he discovered…Will. The real Will. Better to enjoy these first few hours. Will could pretend for at least that long.

Will raised a shirtsleeve to his brow, hiding the truth in an innocuous gesture. “Warm,” he said casually, then forced a smile. “Hotter than Wolf Trap, at least.”

On anyone else, it would have worked. On Hannibal, however, the attempt fell flat, and when his lips finally quirked, it was with an amusement somehow unrelated to what Will had just said. It was as though Hannibal had bypassed what he’d said entirely and seen straight to the core of what he’d meant. Before Will could react however, Hannibal started walking again.

Will hadn’t even realized they’d stopped.

“It is that as well. You’ll need suitable attire for the heat.” His eyes passed over Will in a look that was almost proprietary, and Will shivered. “Linen, I should think.”

Was it kindness or pity? Will couldn’t yet tell. He hesitated, caught between accepting the gesture and bristling at it.

“I—I have a trunk full of appropriate clothes,” Will protested, knowing it for a lie even as he spoke the words. His clothes were thick plaid and heavy wool—appropriate for Virginia, not Cuba. It was obvious now that even the light things he’d brought were far too heavy. A nervous smile found its way to Will’s lips and he continued, “Although I’m aware my definition of _appropriate_ might not be exactly what you’re imagining.”

Layers, it seemed, would not last long in this heat. 

Hannibal didn’t argue, but his eyes glinted. 

Will could see himself melting.

“I have no reason to distrust your judgement,” Hannibal said, the _yet_ hanging in the air like smoke. “But I do hope you’ll permit me one small indulgence.”

—

Instead of taking him to a dressmaker (an aside that Hannibal had made with a sidelong glance that had made Will feel very small indeed), Hannibal had taken Will to his own personal tailor for a tuxedo. The tailor didn’t even mention Will’s gender, but rushed straight to his workstation, clearing out what few customers there were and giving Hannibal his full attention.

While they talked, Will paced. It was a tiny shop, full of pinned sketches and patterned scraps. At first sight, Will was surprised that Hannibal would lead him here, as small and inelegant as the building appeared. He’d thought that Hannibal’s tastes ran more towards elegance. Still…he’d chosen Will, hadn’t he? 

At that thought, Will’s eyes landed on a mirror—the biggest piece of furniture in the small, traditional shop—and immediately skittered away. Above the mirror was a crumbling ruin of mosaic. Chipped and broken tiles littered the wall, green and yellow with age. Will ignored the mirror with studied indifference, and counted the tiles.

By the time Hannibal came over with the tape for his measurements, Will was stroking the paper in his pocket like a talisman. _Married promptly,_ he thought, and rolled his eyes. Then he saw the tailor.

Will had hated the tailor on sight. The man had bowed and squeaked almost obsequiously, and Will could see the part of him that wanted to literally genuflect to the floor. Hannibal had that effect on people, Will could tell as much already. Even he…

Still, the tailor didn’t have to be so _obvious_ about it. It was almost rude.

Even while he was getting Will’s measurements, the man kept his eyes on Hannibal. It was perhaps this that made it feel as though it were Hannibal’s hands on him the whole time—Hannibal’s hands measuring his shoulders, straightening his back, helping him into sample garments. 

“A shade closer at the waist,” Hannibal said quietly. Will shivered.

It would have been easier if Will could tell what he was thinking. 

Most people were like rivers, constantly changing on the surface, but predictable in the depths—easy to see if you got the right angle. Hannibal was a deep pool of black water. Will couldn’t see him at all clearly. Not yet.

“Do you so dislike the sight of your face, Will?” Hannibal asked, after the tailor had finally left them. “Or do you just enjoy the sight of the old ruins?”

The corner of Will’s mouth twitched.

He couldn’t see Hannibals’s face, but Will knew instinctively that he was referring to Sr. Chilton. The tailor was loud even in his absence, fabric rustling and buttons clattering in the next room. 

Still, Will couldn’t help the reflexive shudder. 

_Wrong. Broken. Ruined._

“Old ruins?”

He made the mistake of glancing at the mirror. Not old, perhaps. But ruin wasn’t entirely inaccurate. 

Staring at the himself, Will could see his hair curling from the heat, his shoulders, slight and awkward in the pristine white fabric, and his eyes, shifting to and fro beneath the glasses. There were scars too, holes and empty places where he’d tried to shape himself into something someone could want. Someone could love. They weren't obvious in the mirror, but you could just distinguish them if you knew where to look.

There was a lot to see.

The minds of others were perilous and irresistible in their own right, but his own mind was a labyrinth. Will could get lost if he looked too far in.

Lost _again._

“It is a very _large_ mirror,” he said to Hannibal, after a moment, and self-consciously adjusted his glasses.

Hannibal walked behind him, eyes fixed on their reflections in the glass. Will hadn’t noticed how much taller Hannibal was than him, or how broad.

It was easier to look in the mirror then, because all he could see was Hannibal. With Hannibal in the glass he barely had to glance at himself.

“And there is a lot to see,” Hannibal said, and his voice sounded like a man hearing Beethoven for the first time. His eyes were gentle.

_Said the spider to the fly_ , Will thought, and shivered.

Will hadn’t planned on answering Hannibal’s question, but his words sounded much too meaningful and far to fond to be left hanging in the air.

“That’s the problem,” he murmured, and Hannibal caught it.

“Ah,” he said, looking in Will’s eyes.

The man hadn’t touched him, or propositioned him, or looked at him askance, yet Will felt more naked than if he’d been stripped bare.

“I might be able to help with that, should you wish it,” Hannibal said quietly. Then he left him to change.

—

Four bells, two rings, one kiss. And they were married.

—

In a pinstriped black on black suit that was so dark it seemed to absorb the light, Hannibal swept through their reception like a king holding court. He was part of a medical practice, that much Will knew. What Hannibal had left out, however, was the fact that he was being courted by the head of the practice as well as the dean of a nearby college, and thus had nearly two full cities of people seeking his attention. 

“So you married me—why? To get ahead in your career?”

“I am a surgeon, after all,” Hannibal said, and something about it sounded…odd. Will didn’t understand, and said as much. Hannibal smiled then, for perhaps the first time since they'd exchanged rings.

“If a thing is worth doing,” he explained.

Will cocked his head. “It’s worth doing well?”

“It’s worth mastering,” Hannibal corrected, as though mere competence were beneath him.

And perhaps it was.

He’d certainly mastered the art of wedding rings.

Will was not accustomed to wearing rings. He’d never had that much money, and was used to disdaining those who did. This bright gold band on his finger, inlaid as it was with a full row of diamonds, was obviously worth more than he’d ever had in his bank account. Perhaps that was the reason he kept fiddling with it, kept sliding it on and off. 

Will had also never danced the waltz, despite the fact that he knew it was a wedding dance. He’d expected a few weeks to prepare for the ceremony, learn the steps, but that was not to be. Hannibal seemed convinced that he didn’t need lessons.

“Can you follow, Will?” Hannibal asked, in the middle of their first dance, all the doctors and investors and businessmen staring at them hungrily. 

Will glanced at them. Looked at them. Could not stop staring at them. The men eyed Will more openly than vultures would have, circling around the ruins and waiting for their next feed. Will would have wanted a spouse for a buffer, but it was clear Hannibal needed no such thing. Perhaps he just wanted an audience.

Still, Will couldn’t answer, trapped as he was under the weight of their gazes.

“Too much to see?” Hannibal asked, and Will’s head snapped around as though he’d been struck. Again, he’d been seen. 

Still, the question calmed him down, gave him an anchor. 

“You could say that,” he answered shakily.

Hannibal held out his hand. “If you wouldn’t mind holding on to me,” he said. “It’s often easiest for our minds to find the quiet when our bodies are otherwise engaged.”

He touched his hand and Will thought sudddenly, irresistably, of fucking him. Of being fucked by him. Of finding the quiet between the echoes of their bodies.

“If a thing is worth doing,” Will said unsteadily, shaking the images from his mind.

Hannibal grinned. “Yes. Yes, exactly.”

It wasn’t hard to follow Hannibal’s steps, and the next few hours passed in a comfortable-ish haze of dancing, food and conversations during consisting of boring blather, Hannibal’s low soothing voice, and Will’s grunts every here and there. 

Sooner than he’d expected, it was over, and all the guests filed out, dazzled and humbled by Hannibal in equal measure. They were alone together.

—

The elaborate palace that Will thought had been rented, or borrowed for the occasion turned out to be Hannibal’s actual home. They walked together up the stairs, leaving the piles of gifts and unfinished plates for…later? Tomorrow? Would they get up together and clean the room? 

Will scoffed at the idea. Of course not. Hannibal most likely had a dozen or so servants at his beck and call. Will grimaced.

“You live here?” he asked unnecessarily, and Hannibal nodded. 

“Of course. Why?” 

Will hadn’t prepared for that question, and floundered a moment, Hannibal’s eyes on him, before blurting out the first thing that popped into his head. “There’s no threshold for you to carry me across.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them, but it was too late.

Hannibal’s eyes sparkled with mirth and surprise. “Would you like one?”

The idea of anyone carrying Will anywhere was more than a little uncomfortable, the idea of Hannibal doing it even more so. Perhaps it was because the man looked so cerebral. Even their dance…

But here in the quiet, the memory of Hannibal’s hands at his waist felt hot, dangerous. “I’m not a blushing bride,” Will retorted.

“Aren’t you?” Hannibal looked at him with genuine curiosity.

At this, Will frowned. He wasn’t a naive child. He knew what marriage meant, especially arranged marriages to rich benefactors in foreign countries. That Hannibal hadn’t dragged him to a bedchamber immediately was surprising. That even now he was behaving with politeness and courtesy bordered on the suspicious.

“I’m your spouse,” Will snapped, wanting a response. Then, too late, he remembered his enormous deception and felt the prickling of self-doubt. “Surely you want to…that is, if you still want to…”

Hannibal silenced him with a look. “Let me assure you Will, I would in fact like to take you to my bed.” He paused and regarded Will. 

After a moment, Will recognized it as an opportunity to speak and rolled his eyes.

Hannibal merely continued, dismissing Will’s response as the childish gesture that they both knew it to be. “But I won’t.”

“But—”

“You’re clearly uncomfortable with the idea,” Hannibal explained, speaking slowly so Willand I’d rather not have you until you’ve come of your own volition.”

_Have you. Take you._ Will had offered himself to Hannibal—had accepted his proposal and sailed hundreds of miles to reach him of his own volition, but that wasn’t enough for Hannibal. He didn’t just want consent. He wanted submission. 

Will saw Hannibal then, more clearly than he’d seen him all day. A greedy god, subsisting off the scraps of toadies and sycophants but hungry for a real worshipper. A true supplicant. _Will._

Will’s heart skipped a beat and he scowled to cover the flush the realization brought forth in him. 

He _wanted that._ Dirty, shameful, perverted though it was, part of Will responded to it. And it was worse than anything he'd felt all day. Rage and shame took hold of him and he glared at Hannibal. 

“Want me begging for it?” Will spat, as angry at Hannibal as he was at himself.

Hannibal just looked at him, calm and impassive. “And if I do?”

Will didn’t have an answer for that. Then, suddenly, he didn't need one, because Hannibal was leaving him.

“Until tomorrow, Will Graham,” said Hannibal, inclining his head politely.

They were at a bedroom, Will realized. His bedroom.

“Will _Lecter_ ,” he corrected, more out of a petty desire to get one up on Hannibal than anything else. It appeared, inexplicably, to be the exact response Hannibal wanted.

“Just so, Will,” Hannibal (his _husband)_ said, another ghost of a smile on his lips, and left Will to his messy thoughts, and his full trunk, and his empty room.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be trying to post something once a week, so come bug me about it on my tumblr!
> 
> sussoria.tumblr.com


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